Mikhail felt he should've been used to traveling by now. Being in a revolutionary family, moving around was normal. Running from safe haven to safe haven to avoid capture and possible annihilation was a common occurrence in his youth. But was as they had said. You can run all you like, but eventually you will be caught. And they were. They then traveled to a gulag, where they were forced to live in the remainder years of his childhood. During that time of coerced settlement, his beloved father, the rebellion leader died.
How ironic it was that the man whom never cowered from a fight and never lost a battle with death in defying mortal feats of valor upon the cries of war, only to be struck dead by a particularly bad winter and a cold that turned scarlet. On his deathbed, Mikhail made a promise to his father that he would protect his mother and sisters with his life. It was upon this promise that the man of radical nature was given peace.
They would travel yet again by escaping the gulag and fleeing to a large city, where a safe haven of a different sort awaited them. Their past safe houses were secret hideaways protected them through friends who were supportive to the cause. Now, he planned to hide in plain sight; he moved his family to St Petersburg. It would be easier to hide in the crowd among millions of people, rather than in an open field where there was no cover.
He knew there had to be a way in order to make a living for his family, but in order for him to never be recognized as a son of a rebel, he needed to stay away from anything violent. Upon his mother's encouragement, he decided to go to the university as a student, where he can earn money later in life on a much larger scale than the small blue collar jobs he and his sisters took up as a result of reconstructing the city after the Great Patriotic War*.
As it turned out, this was where he found his love in the written word, and believed it to be the most beautiful thing he had ever encountered that was non tangible. He excelled in reading and literature classes, and proved to have a natural gift in language. He was fluent in all dialects of Russian, British and American English, German, Italian, and even began to learn some French (his French teacher died of a heart attack before he could delve any deeper than a five year old's vocabulary and grammar). In this learning process, he made the choice to pursue a career in writing and literature. Perhaps he could become the next Trotsky. Everyone expected him to be. But this was not to happen.
Mikhail made a second discovery at the university. It happened when he was in the showers with the other men in his Hockey course as an elective. They were done with practice, and everyone was naked, scrubbing the sweat off their skin, throwing soap bars to each other, laughing and talking excitedly about the summer months to come and the warmth that came with it. Mikhail felt a different kind of heat, and it was one that he knew all to well as a male. He turned the water cold, and momentarily forgot that the dials of temperature were all connected, and that whatever he turned to, it would likewise affect the other males in the showers. Every man - minus Mikhail - leapt three feet at the sudden frigid invasion and began yelling at each other confusedly about "who turned off the hot water!?"
The heat in Mikhail was gone, and he summed up the courage to proclaim he was guilty. When badgered for answers as to why he would do such a stupid thing as turn off the hot water in April, his only response was, "It was too hot, and I forgot that I wasn't in my own shower at home, where I can change the heat if I want." The others bullied him about that episode for two weeks before the fun they sought was no longer present.
That night after the incident, he confronted his mother after his sisters had gone to bed.
"How would you describe this warmth, Misha*?" The older woman asked calmly whilst sitting on the couch in the living space while Mikhail nervously paced in a frantic manner.
"It was as if I were about to make love to someone. It was the want, Mother, that caught me off guard. I wasn't thinking when I reached for that faucet, and now I look like a fool!"
"Does it bother you that they teased you about it?" She asked.
"I don't care too much for their opinion of me, but I do wish for respect." He admitted.
"Their respect for you hasn't been tarnished, and you know that. Your embarrassment is just fogging your logic." She announced, pulling his arm to make him sit in a chair. He did so begrudgingly. The elder of the two asked for his full attention for her next inquiry, and requested full honesty. He agreed. Mikhail knew that if he couldn't trust his mother, then he couldn't trust anyone.
"What was on your mind when you felt that need?" That was something Mikhail didn't even expect his mother to think about. He tried to hide the blush on his face, but couldn't do so in a way that would seem natural. He resigned to the truth, even though it confused him to no end.
"I was...I was thinking about their bodies." He admitted.
"Whose?" She pressed gently.
"The others in the showers. Particularly Ivan, who next to me." He whispered, slipping more and more into his shell. His mother took his hand into her own and rubbed his digits with her thumb soothingly.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mikhail. You just like boys instead of girls. That doesn't make you evil or silly. Just special." She assured.
"How could I have not known?" He demanded. He trusted his mother's words fully, and believed them to be true (as of he had been thinking and tossing the idea around in his head all day afterwards). However, his mind was trained to look at other facts that suggested the negative in order to consider all aspects of an argument.
He had been around mostly men all the way until he was 18, and even now more men surrounded him than women did. How could his attraction be so sudden and without warning?
"I am not sure, Misha." His mother permitted. "But maybe it is because you haven't really had the time to consider or think of such a thing as love? Before this settlement, it was all about survival. Our lives were captured in running and fighting to defend our belief, and then after that it was only studying and such. Now that it is April, and the school year is quieting down, perhaps you have found time to think it over?"
"But I haven't been thinking it over!" He exclaimed (not too loudly as to not wake his sisters).
"Maybe not consciously." She offered.
The matter altogether was sorted out shortly afterwards, in which both people bid their goodnights and retired to their rooms. He however did not fall asleep immediately. Instead, he lay awake and stared at the popcorn ceiling in dizzying realization. His mind was all over the place, and not at rest as it should've been. He stood from his bed and approached the mirror, his reflection staring back at him in blunt inspection.
Him being the only male in the house had its perks. He had a room all to himself while his sisters and mother shared (which was a certain cause for continuous argument in the earliest stages of moving in). He had the ability to be alone with his privacy and thoughts. He knew he had to say it, and he thanked God that he was alone. He stared at his treacherously fearful eyes and muttered the words, "I am gay," to his doppelganger in the looking glass. To his utmost surprise, his mouth tugged upwards into a smile and bravery and pride overcame his fears. A wash of pure golden warmth and a sickeningly bittersweet joy overcame his body, and his eyes began to water at the truth in his words. He felt so right being honest with himself, and saying those three words tore open his heart raw with a grand sense of passion and happiness that he had never known.
No one knew about the realization, and they never found out. He knew to keep it a secret, and felt that it was for his family's protection. In the Soviet Union, homosexuals were not under good light, and it was a common thought that they shouldn't exist. He knew he could be honest with himself, but couldn't with others. To cover it up, he dated girls and pretended to like them more than friends. They were fooled by this charade of sexuality, but were not in stupid in the ways of overall disinterest or overall detachment; they were aware fairly quickly that he wasn't too far in love with them to even compliment them beyond what a friend would. It always ended in a few weeks, and his relationships were far in between, so it wasn't as if he were a womanizer to a gossip's eyes. They always became friends afterwards.
His worry for his family's safety had partially quelled when he moved to the city, but it flared up, raising its ugly head when he realized his sexual orientation. He knew that if anyone found out about his preference, his family would not be spared from the slurs and possible discovery by relation to himself. This was a true fear, and decided, with a broken heart, to abandon the hope of becoming a writer or anyone of great acknowledgement. It was best to stay in the shadows. But he would achieve his PhD. His mother insisted upon that much. She understood the heartbreak and the crushed dream he had upon announcing his declaration of resolving any attempt to writing anything as a career.
However, right after Mikhail received his PhD in Russian literature, the police came knocking at his door, arresting him and his family for escaping their imprisonment in the gulag. He had no choice. Mikhail killed the two officers who came into his home and took his family away. He felt like an idiot. It had only been 5 years of peace, and yet here they had to travel once more to a different home. Only five years. It should've been longer. In his head, he thought it would be longer, and if they were discovered, perhaps it has been so long that the government would've not cared anymore. That was not to be, and here he was running away again to find a new home.
Only this time, he would be more careful. He had learned from his mistake, and planned to not repeat it, lest his family be killed as a result, and he would break his vow to his father. With this in mind, Mikhail decided to turn the element that killed his father to their advantage. The cold and the reputation of harsh weather year round would create the perfect barrier between his family and the men who desired their death.
For the younger sisters, who had gotten used to the city, this was an outrage, particularly Zhanna. Despite this, they moved into their newly built cabin and adapted to their surrounding ecosystem. They avoided contact with the outside world at every turn with the exception of one trip a month that Mikhail would take to the village to trade furs for supplies. What they didn't buy, they made with their hands and they ate from the land, all sisters becoming skilled hunters. No men ever came to the house buried in the snowy mountains, and they were safe once more.
With no contact with anyone besides his mother, sisters, and the elderly woman at the trading post in the village, it was odd that he should receive mail from the USA. His skepticism was high, and he opened the letter right outside the trading post, reading it carefully over and over in the dark snowfall.
A woman named Helen was in need of a heavy weapons specialist, and it was the strong opinion of herself and her accomplice at the Reliable Excavation and Demolition that he fit the criteria. It was a job offer that paid more money than he had ever thought possible, supplied full support of any permanent injury were to occur, life insurance for his relatives with a worth of millions, equipment and training to be supplied on arrival, and all business travel was paid for by the company.
There had to be a catch. He turned through the papers and found that indeed, as he suspected, there was a fine print. It was nothing out of the ordinary, other than a few mentions of something called respawn - a term he wasn't to familiar with in this context, and no explanation was given - and only one day off per year for vacation. Not enough time at all to even make it home to hug his mother like that movie he once saw in college*.
He discussed it with his family several times over the proceeding three days before calling to accept. A different woman by the name of Miss Pauling, who apparently was the hand of the administrator answered instead. It was obvious this woman had power if she had someone else do all the dirty work.
So here he was, traveling again. This time, he was without anyone he had known, and it frightened him slightly. He was sure he would be fine, with or without his relations, but his sisters and mother all alone with no protection- no. He won't give way to such thoughts. He couldn't turn back now. He managed to get out of the Soviet Union and was now on a train to a place called Teufort.
He decided to think of the administrator. The way the young hand treated the woman verbally over the phone suggested that she was someone not to be messed with, and was dead serious in all aspects of work. Furthermore, she was a known tyrant over her subjects. He wasn't the first of heavy weapons specialists, and he doubted he would be the last. There were previous teams involved, and there was a threat that just then occurred to Mikhail. The woman had suggested that the administrator wouldn't hesitate to strike a more personal blow if one throws the wrong pitch, and this made Mikhail sick with worry.
He made the choice then and there to feign as a naive and ignorant communist as everyone in the USA expected. He would purposely make himself fit a few stereotypes and make his accent thicker as if he had only just learnt English. He would even fake how much he knew, and would purposely change his ability to place sentences with perfect grammar. He would be the peacemaker by not starting fights with anyone on his team, and would remain to be a man whom wouldn't budge on personal life.
This new plan was perfect. In this way, he could hear and listen to all while they believed him to be stupid and unable to understand. He would protect his family by not breathing a word about them. And finally, he could move his family here in safety without anyone knowing of their existence after this job was over.
The trip went by faster than anticipated, and he stepped onto the platform around 3pm, an hour ahead of schedule. Luckily, his ride was here. A woman of petite form stood before him in a purple outfit with horned glasses and a business aura about her. She introduced herself as the Miss Pauling he spoke to over the phone.
They exchanged their pleasantries but their conversation never delved further than business and what was to happen next. He made sure to chop his sentences up and not try so hard at the English accent. He also didn't ask too many questions and just let himself be led to the car, which was a truck that had long black bags in the back with a shovel and quicklime. Heavy knew exactly what was in those bags, and what quicklime could be used for, but didn't make any comment. His goal was to watch and not make himself known.
The ride was silent, and Mikhail was thankful for that. It also was long, which he was not thankful for. The air was stuffy and dry, hot and overbearingly cruel to his Russian blood. The windows were down, but it did little to help the poor Slav. There was water, but he refused to drink anything that could potentially be harmful. The bottle seal was broken, and he didn't like that.
Their arrival at HQ brought him to a crisp and modern building that looked as businesslike and stiff as Pauling was. The men that walked around however were not at all what the building suggested. Mikhail couldn't believe his eyes.
A man with an American Great War helmet hanging over his eyes in a button up was wrestling a black man in the fountain with a broom and a kilt. They were yelling insults at each other and were throwing water everywhere, drenching anyone foolish enough to get too close. Wait, was that black man Scottish? Explained the kilt.
"YOU CYCLOPS WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO BEAT THE AMERICAN OUT OF ME EVEN IF YOU LIVED LONG ENOUGH TO BE YOUR MOTHER'S AGE, MAGGOT!" The one in the helmet bellowed.
"Don't insult me mum you self centered bastard with yer head full of eyeballs!" The Scot yelled back, throwing the other down into the water basin and smashing his face with the broom handle.
That was all the fight Mikhail wanted to see, and was more than happy to follow Pauling down a hall and into an elevator. She selected a floor and they went up, the cheery music doing nothing for the intense tired mood Pauling seemed to be in, and the apprehensively silent one Mikhail tried to hide. They reached the floor soon enough and she led him into an office where all the paperwork had been laid out for him to sign. As he did so, he had the strangest feeling that he was signing his own funeral contract. It wasn't a good feeling, and he wanted to be out of the office as soon as possible. He wasn't going to trust anyone, not even Pauling. She was the administrator's hand, and by no means did she sound like a nice woman to have over for tea. Now those could be rumors, but Mikhail wasn't about to take chances. Not when his family was concerned. Soon enough, Pauling told him to go downstairs to the main floor and wait in the lobby for further instructions.
Mikhail was all too pleased to leave. His hand hurt from signing so many documents.
"Oh, wait!" She called. He stopped and turned back around to see her hand him a folder.
"All the information you need is in this packet." She explained. He nodded and left entering the elevator. When the doors closed, he gave out a huge sigh of exhaustion. He hadn't slept in 32 hours and it was beginning to take its toll on him. He busied himself with the folder in his hands and read over it carefully.
It finally explained the system called respawn. Supposedly its purpose is to catch your life before it goes beyond and you are "respawned" back in a certain designated room. There is a range for respawn that only goes in the peripheral of the base. Any deaths outside the perimeter are permanent. There was a note at the bottom.
"Any respawn failure is not a liability to be used in court against Team Fortress Industries, and any deaths due to respawn failure will be compensated by doubling the life insurance to family members. "
Respawn failure. That was something that genuinely bothered him. At least his family would be rich. The elevator dinged and he looked up. He was at the lobby, and exited the metal box. The Scot and American that were previously in the fountain were glaring at each other from across the room. One was sitting on the bench, looking like a child whose candy had been taken away mid bite. The other looked like he was about to jump up and break the other's spine from his chair. The former was the American, whom was talking to his shovel lovingly while periodically giving his former opponent dirty glances. The scot was clutching his chair so hard it seemed to splinter in his grip.
The Russian decided to avoid the two and chose to sit next a lanky man who wore a green plaid shirt with dirty kakis. The hat on his head was old and leather worn, and his shades were so thick, they had to be prescription. His face was long and rugged, but not too much so that it was unattractive. He sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning over slightly while flipping a bullet between his fingers. Mikhail identified it as a sniper rifle bullet. The man was a sniper.
Mikhail knew snipers had a tendency to be introverts and didn't often begin conversation. And they were happy without any useless noise such as conversing, thank you very much. That suited Mikhail perfectly. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to finish reading his file. He continued looking over the pages.
There were a ton of rules and regulations, and most were not unreasonable. There were some statements such as how one should not use their real names (only titles) unless close or trustworthy were understandable; however, there was one that took him off guard:
"In any even in which you are in court, the state shall assign an attorney to the convicted. No previous lawyers shall apply."
He wasn't sure why this was the case. With all the money that they are being paid, surely they can hire their own lawyers. It was-
"I'm not talking to you, wanker." A gravelly Australian voice proclaimed, it showing high signs of irritation. The Russian looked up from his papers and glanced over at the lanky sniper, to see that he had stopped flipping the bullet and was now tapping his foot angrily on the tile floor.
"I move, if you don't want me-" Mikhail began, but he was waved off by the other beside him hurriedly.
"Not you mate, him." He assured, pointing with his thumb over to the plant next to the bench closet to the marksman. Mikhail couldn't help but stare in shock and concern. These men we're off their rockers. What had he gotten himself into?
"Pardon moi, filthy bushman, but you are forgetting that he does not know I am here. Are you that much of a simpleton?" The French accent and usage was odd in this mix and felt like a slap in the face. However, the source of it was unknown, and Mikhail glanced around carefully. No one was near enough to portray that high of volume at such a distance away (the only other people there were the scot and American, who were at least 50 feet away). Mikhail was thoroughly confused, but the sniper next to him was sure that it had come from the plant. He was actively standing now and yelling at the greenery.
Mikhail was just about to leave for the restroom (more for sanctuary from these nuts than for any relieving) when the shrub suddenly moved by itself and quite literally ran over the sniper, laughing something like "honhonhon" loudly with an occasional snort to accompany it. It weaved around the fountain and zoomed across the lobby with grace that was unassuming for a French pot of greens. The sniper had gotten up, and was now chasing it around the entranceway with curses and insults that the plant just laughed off. What was sad was that the shrub had better comebacks than the Australian. Mikhail had to rub his temples at the scene. This was something out of a cartoon video game.
"Woah woah WOAH! HEY THE PARTY SHOULDN'T START UNTIL I GET HERE!" A boisterously loud yell exclaimed. Mikhail's head turned to find who made it, dearly hoping it wasn't another shrub (he was skeptical of the laurel next to him) and instead found a tiny man - no, child - in a baseball tee, sweatpants, and running shoes. He had buckteeth and a Red Sox hat on backwards. The kid couldn't be any taller than just below his shoulder. It wasn't his height that bothered Mikhail. Oh no, it was the fact at how young and naive he was. His aura screamed for attention and love, much like a two year old's. They honestly thought him as a mercenary? How can-
"Spook- get back here you pompus bastard!" The Aussie yelled as they went around the fountain again. The plant was still out of arm's reach, and only continued to laugh like a maniac. Was Mikhail dreaming?
"Oh so we are playing chase, eh? WATCH AND LEARN YOU DUMBASSES!" The small being yelled out, and with that he took off like a bullet. He could run fast. Extremely fast. He was practically a blur as he dashed past Mikhail's bench and tackled the unprepared pot. Instead of shattering like Mikhail thought it would, it let out some smoke and revealed a fancily dressed male that wore a balaclava.
Mikhail decided to leave the room. There was only so much oddness that he could take at one time, and fled for the bathroom for some quiet just as an American rounded the corner exclaiming in a Texan accent his displeasure of the scene before him. As Mikhail closed the bathroom door behind him, he heard the Scot and American continue their previous fight.
He was sure these men were insane, and by no means sensible. This was something he wouldn't even have dreamed of, and it was unnerving that people could be that messed in the head.
He left it at that and leaned against the wall of the bathroom and continued reading. There wasn't much left to the file other than explaining the basis of teamwork to achieve the information the other side had, and explained that he was on defense of said team. His weapon was explained in full detail and was given the blueprint of it as well.
It was powerful. It was expensive. It was heavy. It reminded him of his father. He too was powerful, precious, and strong. The thought of having a weapon with him that was similar to his own parent was endearing. Mikhail was a man of passion and sensitivity. He found the heart in things easily, and was often described to be a gentle giant...before bashing brains in. He thought of giving his father's name, but believed that may lead people to recognize his family. No, he must choose a name for his gun that doesn't lead to anyone in his family. He considered all the names he knew.
Alex. Alex was a general name, and was common among Russians. And no one in his extended family was by that name. But Alex didn't suit the weapon. No, it was far too weak sounding.
Sasha was the pet name. No one would think him odd to have a pet name for it. Furthermore, if it were a she, then it suggests a strong personality. Yes, Sasha will do.
He was just about to get to the basic layout of the base when the door to the bathroom was slammed open, and a very pissed of Texan entered. It was then that Mikhail recognized how short this man was in comparison. He was smaller than the tiny kid! However, he was a man, and not a child. In fact, his face and demeanor suggested intelligence. However, his temper was shaken up, and Mikhail wasn't about to see what the man was about to do. He filed is folder under his arm and left, braving the lobby. To his surprise there were no fights currently. In fact, it almost seemed peaceful. The Scot and American helmeted man sat together, arms over their shoulders in a friendly and almost brotherly manner as if they had been friends their whole lives. The kid was poking at the sniper for a cigarette, while he ignored him. The masked man leaned against a wall, flirting with the receptionist while smoking a cigarette. It was...odd. He headed back to the bench where he originally sat when he stopped in his tracks.
A new man had appeared and had taken his seat. He sat elegantly with his back straight and his nightshade hair in perfect alignment with the exception of one curl that just hung over his forehead. His spectacles suggested a high calculating intellect, and were professionally placed on his angular nose. The jaw was masculine and lips were thin. The black brows held much character and shaded over his striking blue eyes as he concentrated. His arms were muscular but lean, and his hands were steady in their movements, his black gloved fingers long and dexterous. He was going though his own file, which had far more paperwork than anyone else had.
Mikhail was at a loss at what to do. He had never been so interested in another being before, and felt a different kind of anxiety grow within him. He choked it back and approached.
"Is seat taken?" Mikhail asked politely. The newcomer looked up from his encyclopedia worth of papers and shook his head.
"Nein, help yourself." He responded. His voice held a slightly higher octave, but was still very much a male. It was laced with a German origin and overall had a polite countenance. However, there was a general aura that surrounded the man and shrouded him in a dark past. Mikhail Sat beside him and tried to suppress his racing heart. What was wrong with him?
Perhaps it was because the man was German? He remembered his days cleaning up St. Petersburg after the war with his sisters, and recalled all the horror stories of the German invaders. But when Mikhail looked at this strange Teutonic male, he wasn't struck by anything negative. Perhaps he merely felt a connection with him and wished for a friendship. He decided to wait for the other to make the move, as per to keep his relatively detached manner.
It was only about ten minutes before Miss Pauling appeared with a...well, Mikhail knew it was a person. It's just that they seemed to already be in uniform. Fireproof suit and gas mask included. This being has a clutch purse in its hand that was bright pink and had flowers on it, but its stance was fairly masculine. Confusing messages aside, Pauling called them to the bus outside that would take them to their base. They filed into the vehicle, each claiming a seat as they went. Scout went straight to the first seat behind miss Pauling on the front of the bus, immediately talking about how amazing he was. Pauling only have one worded answers as she went though several contacts and papers that had too small of print for Mikhail to read.
There were enough seats for everyone to have their own, and that was what everyone did. Except the gas masked person. He-she- er...they plopped down next to the short American and gave a few muffles words in happy greeting. The Texan looked thoroughly confused, but let them do as they pleased.
Mikhail sat near the back of the bus and looked out the window. He tried to pretend not to notice that the elegant raven haired man sat in front of him and placed his files in the seat beside him. The German turned to the Russian, grabbing Mikhail's full attention as the bus began to pull out.
"How do you feel about an experimental heart surgery that may or may not involve molding a risky device to said organ?" He asked. Mikhail blinked in surprise.
"Oh...maybe?" He offered. The German looked over the giant with a detective stare and seemed to be sizing him up. Not in a demeaning way, but more for physic.
"I have a theoretical tactic that could potentially make someone invincible on the battlefield." He pressed on, almost giddily. "It enhances the cell performance and increases durability by two hundred percent. It almost makes one bulletproof!"
"Does?" Mikhail asked in wonder, suddenly interested. If he could become invincible, then he may actually protect his family in any setting. Zhanna would be pleased beyond belief if this were true.
"It does, when under the influence of the über charge." The German affirmed. Mikhail was unsure what this "über charge" was, but it sounded like a good thing.
"What is charge?" He asked.
"Well, it's a setting on my medigun that I developed that will connect with the heart device. It needs to charge, but with development it can improve." the man explained. He paused and looked almost pleadingly at the giant. "However, I need a test subject in order for this to work." He added suggestively.
Mikhail paused at the silent offer and glanced over their future teammates.
"Why me? Why not other men?" He questioned. The German wiped his glasses off with a small sigh.
"I wish for this to succeed. I believe it to be proper that I have a man with large physic that can handle such voltage. You remain to be the only one who fits my criteria.
"I seem to do that a lot." The Russian mused. However, he also thought about what he was considering. He had no idea who this man was in the slightest and without so much as a "hello, my name is such and such," the German was offering to do a not so safe experimental surgery that may or may not kill him.
But the benefits...his family. They mattered more. On one condition.
"What is name?" Mikhail finally asked. The German looked surprised and then gave a small chuckle.
"My title would be Medic." He revealed. Mikhail Was about to inquire his real name, but then remembered the regulations. He held out his hand over the seat.
"I am Heavy Weapons Guy," he introduced. Medic took his hand and shook with a business grip. "Nice to meet, Doktor."
"Ja, das ist gut to meet you as well, Heavy." He responded. Heavy. Not a bad nickname, and Mikhail thought it better than saying heavy weapons guy all the time.
"I will help Doktor with charge." Mikhail agreed, a small smile making its way onto his face. The doctor positively beamed.
"Ah, wunderbar! Dankeschön, miene freund!" He exclaimed. The rest of the bus ride consisted of what to expect in battle, and a little bit about the doctor's medigun. He was very proud of this discovery, and it showed through every single detail of his description. Furthermore, he was a passionate individual when it came to scientific discovery. Mikhail decided he liked this man, even if his ideas were a little - alright, very far fetched. But he seemed trustworthy enough. But one thing stuck in Mikhail's mind.
Medic had called him a friend.
Notes:
* The Great Patriotic War is the Soviet Union's name for WWII
* Misha is the pet name of Mikhail, the Russian version of Michael
* The film mentioned was is an actual film. Its called "Ballad of a Soldier" and is a story of a boy trying to get home during a leave to his mother while he's fighting the war because he never got to say goodbye to her. It's a really good movie (in my opinion). You can watch it subbed in two parts on Dailymotion.
And YES! I DID place a Prop Hunt situation here! I would totally be a shrub ;)
sneak peak for next chapter on tumblr: post/123320997972/in-the-bright-lights-of-the-entrance-of-the